


Brown Cow Mocha

by Panickedpenguin



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Brown Cows, Coffee, Deadpool - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Rupert Holmes - Freeform, Scars, Spider-Man - Freeform, Veteran Wade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panickedpenguin/pseuds/Panickedpenguin
Summary: Peter giggled. This guy was clearly a bit disconnected from societal norms, but he was funny, and he was a veteran, and he walked with long, confident strides.A Peter/Wade Tumblr prompt.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 352





	Brown Cow Mocha

Peter Parker knew his city like the back of his hand. Better, even, considering he would sometimes be shocked to notice a chemical burn on his knuckle or a paper cut across his thumb. One time, he hadn’t seen the reminder Gwen scrawled across his left hand until seven hours later, as he was reaching into a bag of chips and suddenly struck by the word ‘Benzotriazole’ in red ink. None the less, Peter knew each building he passed on his way from the bus stop to home, beginning with the convenience store on the corner. 

It was there that he got a drip coffee with six creamers, three pumps of chocolate and two squirts of caramel for $1.28. Peter would normally pass it up, he could get a loaf of white bread for that price, but he had had a long day that was getting longer still. He had a sixteen page paper to outline, homework for biophysics to complete and then the busy Thursday night patrol as Spider-man. However, it is only eight buildings down, at what he knows to be the local VA clinic, that his coffee is spilt down his shirt. 

“Fuck!” Says the guy who hit him, coming out of the clinic and straight into Peter’s hot cup before either of them could save themselves. 

Peter made a pained, disappointed, groaning sound that only ever accompanies the loss of a coffee, and looks at his button-up in heartbreak. 

“Shit, I am so sorry,” The guy says, and Peter looks up at him. Then he keeps looking. “I can buy you a new shirt, one without the blue-collar plaid thing and maybe with little tacos on it; I mean, I only say that ‘cause I brought the guys’ dinner but haven’t fed myself and I’m hungry.” At this point, the guy looks up at Peter. He winces, or what Peter thinks is a wince, and takes a step back. “Woah, uh, hey- can I buy you a coffee?”

And really, it’s the complete change of tone that gets Peter to laugh. The guy sounded pissed and then, looking straight at Peter, switched to a carefree and flirty. Peter was taken aback, and liked the feeling, his shirt momentarily forgotten. 

The guy was covered in scars. Littered in pock marks. There could’ve been burns, too. The guy had exited the VA clinic looking like war itself and Peter was struck by just how blue his eyes are. 

“Uh, yes,” Peter starts, glancing at the man’s exposed hands, just as scarred as his face and held halfway up in aborted defense. He wore a dark red hoodie with the hood up, covering his ears and most of one cheek. “Yes,” Peter repeated. “You can buy me a coffee.”

“Oh. Oh yeah?” And the man grinned, his teeth perfect. “Come on, then, I know just the place. It’s hipster but not like, ‘I rode my penny-farthing bicycle to write up metro poetry on my typewriter’ kind of hipster, just beanie-and-glasses hipster. Are poetry slams hipster? Did hipsters just descend from emos or what?”

Peter giggled. The guy was clearly a bit disconnected from societal norms, but he was funny, and he was a veteran, and he walked with long, confident strides. Peter zipped up his jacket to cover the coffee stain and said, “I’m Peter, by the way.”

The man smiled sideways at him. “Hi, Petey, I’m Wade. I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.” 

“Well, I’m not a fan of yoga and like to think I have more than half a brain.”

“See, now I know the next line, but it seems too soon to be throwing midnight sex into the conversation. If you wanna talk about Rupert Holmes’ continued success as a playwright though, wooh, boy! But he did not age well.”

“I really wouldn’t know. I was born in 2001.”

“Oh shit,” Wade whispered, hand on the door handle to what was the hipster coffee shop. He appeared lost in space until his gaze snapped back down to Peter and he half grinned again. “Does that make me a cougar?”

Peter laughed. “If so, you are one fit milf.” And wasn’t that true. Wade was broad shouldered with biceps pushing out of his hoodie sleeves. A woman of his stature would be damned intimidating.

They were still giggling at there own wit and stupidity when they got to the cashier. 

“Ummm,” Peter hummed as he pulled out his wallet, attempting to hide the measly change from potential onlookers.

“I’m buying, remember?” Wade cut in. “Bombed out the clinic, ran into your coffee, painted your uppity shirt brown?”

“Oh. Right. Thanks, Wade.” Peter smiled. He turned to the cashier to order. “Can I get a brown cow mocha with one pump of caramel and extra whip?”

When Peter turns back to Wade, the man is staring wide eyed at him. His eyes were impossibly blue, his skin a tie-dye of pale flesh, pink scars and red wounds. His lips, though, his lips just looked rough.

“Sir?” The cashier repeated.

Peter realized he was blushing.

“Yeah,” Wade said, cutting his attention back to the room. He eased into a casual tone way before Peter had even remembered how to breathe. “I’ll have what he’s having. Anything called a brown cow is everything that I want.”

Wade paid and they stepped aside. 

“Okay, what’s a brown cow?”

“It’s a mocha made with white chocolate and dark chocolate together.”

“Oooo, like Chinese food in a burrito, or Thai food on pizza, or ketchup with mustard!”

“Right, sure, but it’s just chocolate.”

“The mixed marriage of chocolate.”

“It could be the ‘disappoint your father, make your mother jealous’ marriage of chocolate.”

“Thank God for child slavery or chocolate wouldn’t exist today.”

“Hey,” Peter reprimands, ending the banter. “There is never a reason to endorse child slavery.”

“Draw the line at abuse of minors, got it.” Wade nodded seriously. He then got very distracted by a girl’s sparkly pink shoes. Peter’s pretty sure he isn’t supposed to hear Wade whisper, “I want those shoes. No, they’d look fabulous.”

Peter looked at him. Wade was tall, broad, with a well-defined nose and jaw. He had probably been good looking before he got those scars. Coming from the VA clinic, Peter could only speculate what kind of torture and war Wade must have been subjected to. And clearly endured.

Wade was quick witted; funny. He must entertain a darker sense of humor, with what he appears to have been through, which doesn’t induce much surprise. The surprise to Peter is his readiness to abide by a boundary Peter had set, not questioning but expanding upon that boundary himself to include not just child slaves, but all abused minors. It was a developed show of respect with genuine nonchalance. Received and processed with ease. 

That made Peter wonder.

“Alrighty, Petey,” Wade began, handing Peter his drink. Wade’s own had three straws jammed into the opening. “I promise not to go brown cow tipping this time.”

“I dunno, I could see you out in some countryside, tipping cows and running from the farmer’s shotgun.”

“Why, yes! You know me too well. Ergo, henceforth, whatchmacallit, they will only be those black and white cows from now on.” Wade crossed his heart with his coffee cup before taking a long sip. “Mmmmmm.”

“Not too sweet?”

“Nope, it’s perfect.”

“Good,” Peter announced. They smiled at each other and drank their caffeinated sugar beverages. But then Peter recalled why he needed coffee in the first place. He stepped towards the door and Wade followed. “Well, I, uh, have a sixteen page paper to write for my biochemistry class. It’s on the structure of macromolecules by x-ray, spectroscopy and homology models. It’s easy enough, just have to touch on the principles of protein structure and comparative protein visuals to judge the quality of a macromolecular model, but it’s so time consuming to write and then cite all of my referenced material. I mean, intro to this study material was like, four classes ago and I have to search through a uge pile of textbooks for one sentence of reasoning and it’s just so annoying—”

It was halfway down the block when Peter noticed he was rambling, and he abruptly cuts himself off. He glances at Wade, mostly to see if he’s still _there_ , Peter’s cheeks going hot. He mumbles out an apology, hiking his backpack up and sipping at his coffee. 

“Petey,” Wade says, stopping in his tracks. Peter stops too and hesitates before looking up at the man. “ _You_ ,” He emphasizes, “Are the cutest fucking genius I’ve ever seen!”

“Uh,”

“No no no, the sassiest, the downright spiciest, the littlest doe-eyed genius I’ve ever met. Or heard of! Or tasted. Wait—well—no, I’m not gonna taste him right now! I’ll get science all over me.”

“Wha, y-you,” Peter tries, still absorbing the words, still trying to decipher the look on Wade’s face, because his eyes look so sincere and he’s holding his mouth like he’s amazed, and Peter just can’t quite grasp—“You think I’m cute?”

His voice was nearly a squeak, lack of oxygen apparently cutting off the blood supply to his brain. He tried taking shallow breaths, tried breathing at all, but Wade still looked like he was in awe and hadn’t quite noticed how his hood fell farther back on his head.

“Petey-pie,” Wade all but purred, “Not just cute, but _the cutest_.”

“Wow.” Peter stared up at Wade with his mouth unquestionably hanging open because this man, this war-torn, scarred up, honorably honest guy, thought Peter Parker was cute. So—“Can I give you my phone number?”

Wade blinked. “Hell yeah!” He pulled out a pink flip phone with one hand and casually reached out to place his coffee cup on Peter’s head with the other. “That way, I can send you dank memes at 3am. But don’t worry, I’ll save the sexy ones for school hours.”

He passed the phone to Peter who slowly typed in his number while focusing intently on not spilling the cup on his head. It was a balancing act he was not accustomed to, and one he knows he would never have been able to do before he became Spider-man. He gave the phone back to Wade, who took it along with his coffee. 

“Peter Parker,” Wade read aloud.

“That’s me. So, uh, text me sometime. And thanks again for the drink.”

“Thanks for letting me ruin your shirt.”

They smiled at each other, and waved, and parted ways. Peter thought about that smile the rest of the way home. 

Once Peter had thrown off his backpack and jacket and yanked on a cleanish shirt, he stared into the empty abyss of his refrigerator and got a text. It read:

‘Wade Wilson  
I’m a Capricorn  
My spirit animal is a Chupacabra  
If I took you out to dinner it’d be at a taco truck’

And Peter smiled some more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This was a tumblr prompt from... someone? If you know who, please let me know so I can credit them. :) I appreciate youuuu!


End file.
